Now, I’m not too sure when this happened…but my cankles have gone up a size. Just a year ago when I was watching the first season of Honey Boo Boo and wondering why they all wore ankle socks and now I know…because the tops of their socks are too tight on their legs.
A little while ago I was staying with my boyfriend and didn’t have any clean socks with me so I asked him to lend me a pair. When he came back with either ankle socks or crew socks, I immediately chose the crew pair and then I had a panic, “What if the tops of the crew socks don’t fit me.” While I know my boyfriend loves my body and wouldn’t care if his socks were too tight on me, I’d be mortified. So I quickly traded them out, grabbing the shortie pair and saying, “I’ve never tried this kind before,” leaving out the “because I thought they were trashy and if I was going to wear them I might as well join Sam’s Club so I can buy cases of cheese balls in buckets.”
Pretty soon though, my boyfriend bought me a pack of his socks after I mentioned how I liked them. And today when I didn’t have any clean short socks I was forced to wear my old Hanes crew socks. I folded the tops down in half and by the time I took them off the ribbing of the material was temporarily tattooed onto my lower leg.
With promos running for the new season I am reminded of my fat ankled sisterhood and thinking it’s about time I buy another pack and make the switch for good….on the flip side though, if I lose enough weight that my sock tops are no longer tourniquets then I will know I have succeeded with this whole weight loss game…and save me a whole lot of money on cheese balls. Or maybe I should just try out those fatty diabetic socks that my Mom gave me for Christmas.
A few months ago I went in for a Wellness exam for my insurance. Basically, all I needed to do was to get my blood drawn and numbers taken to get a 50% discount on my insurance bill. I didn’t take it too seriously, other than fasting and showing up early so as to not start gnawing on the chairs in the waiting room. Looking back on that day I have two vivid memories: The giant bruise I received from the blood draw that made me look like a heroin addict for a week (ironic, a FAT heroin addict) and I also remember the BMI percentage I received on my fatness, I mean my wellness, exam scorecard.
In case you are unfamiliar with BMI, let me clue you in on the hell it is…BMI stand for “Body Mass Index.” When you combine your height with your weight you are given a number which tells you what percentage of your body is fat. Some scales also consider your age and sex. Here is a chart of numbers of what is acceptable and unacceptable:
I’m not really sure if it’s the 12 pounds I’ve gained from working in an office, the fact that the other day my boyfriend tried to pick me up and fell over or that I’m lonely for fat chicks but I’m starting up this blog again.
Okay, it’s the boyfriend trying to pick me up shit. Here’s how it went down…(literally):
Today was just like any other day except that I started to sneak eat. That’s right, when my boyfriend was in the shower I downed some Christmas candy and when he went in for a kiss I felt guilty and confessed. Awhile later I saw him go into the bathroom and I jammed some chocolate-covered nuts into my gullet and again he tried to kiss me and I confessed.
You’d think that he’d understand from all of that sneak eating I’m packing on the pounds and ashamed to be seen eating in public. But that didn’t stop him from trying (and failing) to pick me up. It wouldn’t be that big of a deal if he was a little guy, in fact it might have been quite cute. But when your man is 6’6” and always bragging about how strong he is, it’s less than adorable to see him crumble under your weight. He blamed being drunk, which he wasn’t all night—again, he’s a big guy. One wine spritzer, even if it did have vodka in it, isn’t going to fuck him up. And then he tried to tell me that his muscles were tired and sore from going to the gym today, something which he’d said nothing about at all, until I didn’t believe his drunken lie.
But in a way, this would debaucle made me realize that he’s a sweetheart who would never admit I’m big but yet an asshole for trying to pick me up. But the experience guided me to my New Year’s Resolution…instead of concentrating on losing pounds so he can lift me I’m going to concentrate on picking up pounds, as in being able to pick him. Just because he is now banned from picking me up doesn’t mean I am going to not heft him up.
That’s right, feminism will win again, but damn I hope in the process I drop a few pounds…or he gets stronger…
Recently I was offered and took my first big girl job. Which is great except all of my dress pants and dress shirts are like 8 years old and so full of holes they have become grunge gear. So, I did what all starting wagers do after the thriftstore winds up with nothing, I hit up JC Penney. Yep, that’s right the same place my grandma used to buy her “slacks.”
Much to my surprise they had an amazing plus size collection and an large sale rack. I loaded up my arm with about thirty garments and hit the nearest dressing room. Yes, I am the jackhole who takes the handicap dressing room so that I will have more room to turn around. While in my giant room trying on garment after garment that won’t breach my thighs, ass and tummy I hear her….
In the regular-sized dressing room next to me a woman who recently lost a lot of weight. She was complaining. “No matter what I buy now it doesn’t even matter because in a month I’ll be too thin for it!” That bitch. I suppose most people would be happy for her and smile to themselves and not take the success of a complete stranger (in this case just a voice) as a personal insult. But, I am not most people. I am of the people that know better but do it anyway…why do you think I always eat a full bag of Goldfish crackers or don’t break off the Twin Pop and save half for later? It could be the same reason I find that all of these clothes don’t fit.
I peel off another garment that’s too tight and meticulously hang it back on the hanger though I’d like to crumple it, piss on it and burn it. But, I won’t because I’m not a complete jackhole…yet. Then I hear the witch talking about, “The road to good health is a hard journey.” At that I tear out of the dressing room leaving my giant pile of ill-fitting garments for someone else to clean up. And, I feel like a complete jackhole who needs a snack. A jackhole that is on a hard journey and the same jackhole that if she succeeds will likely brag about it in a dressing room, a regular-sized dressing room, hopefully.
This past week I started a new job in a completely different town. On the top of my priority lists were packing lunches and finding a new gym. I thought it’d be important to have the gym to help manage the stress of taking on a new position. So, on my first day I asked a few of my new work chums if they had heard anything about gyms in the area. They all suggested one that cost only 10 bucks a month–which is like a fourth of what I have been paying. I went there directly after work.
When I arrived at the 10 buck gym it was loud. It was huge. It had children. And, loads of people working out in a sweaty, stagnant room. But, in my daze I agreed to sign up as it was a “no commitment” contract. The ex-con who helped me to sign up told me that I could get a personal trainer one-on-one assessment for free just for signing up…this was after he told me that he has 3 DWIs. At my last (and only other) gym I was told that I could get a special deal on 3-personal training sessions. I declined and never really gave a trainer another thought as they would probably interrupt my Toddlers and Tiaras marathon viewing on my treadmill. But this, this was FREE! And thank God because somehow he tricked me into signing up for the 20 buck a month contract that included tanning and classes. I have NEVER been tanning and have no interest in skin cancer or looking crispy. And, the only time I took a fitness class was a pilates class led by a fat old man with a cassette boom box…I quit halfway through the first session.
The next day I showed up for my assessment after a hard day on the new job. The trainer was sitting at a card table and she was tiny and overly eye-shadowed and generally made me want to barf. She came trotting over (yes, trotting). I was immediately questioning my choices.
“Are you here for your assessment?!” she chirped.
“Yeah but, I don’t know if I want to do this,” I said to her.
“I don’t know what you want to do but I’m really just content to go on treadmills and ellipticals…so….”
She points to the giant gorilla man-zone.
“We were going to do weight training!”
“Yeah, no, I’m good. I had a hard day at work. Can I re-schedule or just not do it?”
“What are your fitness goals?”
“Umm, I want to lose 60 pounds…”
“Yeah, I’m not in a rush or anything about it. Maybe I’ll lose it like in the next two years.”
“60 pounds, wow. You’re going to NEED a trainer for THAT!”
I blink back a tear.
“If you sign up now you can get 10 sessions for 25 bucks each!!!”
“I’m going to go now,” I said, nearing tears.
I made my way to the women’s locker room to be confronted with tons of half-naked women like a National Lampoon movie producer’s dream come true. My old gym had a private bathroom to change in. I loped over to the stalls area and tried to start changing. “You’re going to need a trainer for that!” cycled through my mind between deafening blasts of the hand dryer. I could see her blinking caked eyeshadow face in my mind. That bitch. I can lose the weight without her! I don’t need her fucking opinion.
Tomorrow I am going to start working out, hard. At a better gym. Without a trainer. And, that bitch had better expect a Christmas photo card of me (two years from now) 60 pounds down with a double-middle finger to the camera…except my fingers will be so thin she probably won’t be able to see them so I’ll have to modify the text to read, “Merry Christmas, and fuck you!” And, I won’t be wearing ANY eyeshadow!
The other day I re-committed myself to the idea of being healthier and ultimately losing the weight I have been wanting to lose for a long, long time. I did this by posting a status update on Facebook declaring to the world (my alleged friends) that I will lose 6 pounds in a month’s time. This was meant to make it more official, to make me more accountable and to garner support from my friends in my quest to wear a one-piece that doesn’t have a skirt attached to it. But, no one liked it or commented except an old acquaintance of mine who recently gave birth and has a similar weight loss goal. She and I decided to embark on our weight loss adventure together.
The only problem is that she’s over 1000 miles away. At first this bothered me. We won’t get to hang out and talk about everything we aren’t eating. We won’t be able to wake up at 5 am and go on a jog before work. We won’t be able to have girls night where we eat carrot sticks and drink Mich Ultra and plan out how hot we will be while doing crunches. But, the fat girl in me was like, Great! If I don’t lose the weight I can just lie and say I did! Or, if she loses like 10 pounds I can tell her: ‘Gee, that’s swell but I lost 11!’ And then never post another pic from the head down again. Ever. Or just unfriend her.
Then today I got a message from her saying that it was so nice to have a weight loss buddy and that she and ‘the beast’ (her baby) were out for coffee. I wrote back a love letter to team work. And spent the day not eating except for popsicles. But, when my boyfriend asked me what I want for dinner I said, “Pizza!” Then the image of her and her baby sitting on her small belly popped into my mind and my dreams of pizza faded. Damn, this buddy system really works!
Yesterday, I went to the doctor because I haven’t been sleeping very well and I’m sick of yelling at people all day because of it. I don’t want to get hoarse for shitssake. But, I should’ve known it wasn’t going to go well when I had just pulled out my damn Ellen book in the waiting room to read and the damn nurse chirped loudly in front of me, “HANNAH!” I jumped up and she glared at me. I closed the book and walked with her behind the doors. I saw the scale coming and I was hoping that this time we’d pass it by. Nope.
“Can I get you to hop up on here?” the nurse asked, assuming that I “hop”–I wanted to say, ‘Look bitch the only time I hop is once a year when I see that Cadbury Eggs are back.’ Instead, I made a show of taking off my jacket and debated under her cool stare whether or not I should take off my shoes or to tell her I had just eaten a huge wrap sandwich and drank a soda and it might affect my weight drastically–like at least by 20 pounds.
When I hopped up on the scale I saw that I’d nearly gained back all of the 10 pounds I had lost this past year. I was determined to eat nothing but air Watermelon Jolly Ranchers and drink nothing but water from then onwards. Luckily, I scored some Ambien so I felt better by the time I left, but I had to walk past that wretched scale and the damn nurse with the chipping fingernail polish who knows my awful truth and doesn’t realize my shoes alone weigh at least 5 pounds, probably, maybe, not…
Today, I weighed myself at the gym after a treadmill session and was pleased to see that the scale was down almost 6 pounds since yesterday. (Note: I did take off my shoes and didn’t eat a wrap) I called my Mother and told her the weight at the doctor’s office and she said, “You know, you can’t trust those scales at the doctor’s office. They set them so everyone weighs more so they can bitch at you about it at your appointment. Everyone knows that.”
Actually Mom, I didn’t know that, nor do I really believe it. But from now on I’m going with it. But, since the doctor’s scale disaster I did have a few positives…I’ve come up with and re-assessed my goals.
Be at my goal weight (60 pounds down) by my next driver’s license photo.
Lose 6 pounds in the next month (by the regular scale’s standards).
Don’t believe everything my Mother says…
It’s been a few months now since my new driver’s license came in the mail. The woman who took the photo was a huge Swedish blonde–not the kind that men want to be with, but the kind that could kick those pansies asses. This is why I didn’t ask her to see the photo. I wanted to be surprised in the same way I was with my previous photo. I was in love with it. Obsessed with it. I showed it to everyone, not caring that I almost put down my actual weight because I was convinced everyone would see the beauty of the photograph and wonder if it was a Glamor Shot.
I did become obsessed with the new license for awhile…in the worst way. In it my hair was dyed a hideous shade of general darker-than-usual and I looked like that lesbian kid on Charlie Brown…the one with the sidekick with the glasses. It might not have been so bad had I just looked like her…but in reality I looked like her after she’d grown up, had 5 kids, gotten punched in the face a few times working the McDonald’s drive-thru and smoked several thousand packs of Misty 100s…well that with a THICK double chin.
Those first few months I showed everyone the photo. I thought if I could laugh about it I’d feel better. In my show and tell period my father got his hands on it and called me, “Fatty Face!” for several months…thank Goodness he’s getting old and forgetful and has since given that up. But he was right. And every server who has the gall to card me (I know it’s just because my damn boyfriend is 35 going on 18…fucking baby face) gets me responding with handing over my license and saying, “Don’t you look at that picture!” As though I was trying to conjure up the same mettle that the Swedish DMV worker had when she boomed, “Next!”
For the past months I have tried to forget that everywhere I go I am within a few feet of that truthful picture. But today I had to pull it out to fill in some paperwork for a new job. I caught the eye of the Fatty Faced monster and held it. I stared. And I realized that I had been avoiding this picture for a long time now. But maybe it’s exactly what I need. I even went to the gym after staring at it. So, instead of the pressure and fight with the scale once a week I am going to pull out the Fatty Face and stare at it. I think it may be more effective in getting to my goal. Next go around I want to go back to the Glamor Shot. Period. And I will start saying, “Here’s my ID! Look at that picture. No really, look at it, bitch! Appreciate.”
The other morning when I was eating my bagel with cream cheese breakfast and feeling guilty I saw a magazine that belonged to my mother and so I picked it up. It was one of her older lady mags with all sorts of tips and hints and recipes and mostly just ads for creams to make you look younger. I flipped through and came upon a section about losing “belly fat” (of course, there is always a section like this in these magazines).
This article was unlike most of their weight loss articles in that it had belly fat divided by age group. Apparently, at certain ages the battle plan changes for fighting the ominous belly fat monster. The first group was the “30s” (they skipped the 20s for the sole reason that no one in their 20s reads this shit, except me but I’m 29) then came the “40s” and “50s and Beyond”. The “50s and Beyond” solution was to walk and pray…no wonder that woman was still quite fat and too bad I’m not that old I could do that. The solution for the 40s was to walk and then do lunges or squats or something–thank God, I’m not in my 40s yet I don’t know how to do a proper squat. And, staring at a chick doing them at the gym to learn makes me look like a creeper. And finally, the solution for the 30s age group was to do walk/jog/run intervals.
With each section there was a set of photographs of a woman who had done the exercises and lost weight. The older ladies were bigger and lost weight so they still looked chunky, but the woman representing the “30s” (which is the section I focused on) was tiny and now a Zumba instructor. If that weren’t enough she’d popped out four kids. And then I read that she lost weight by doing walking workout DVDs! The same walking workout DVDs I have been doing for years and not lost any weight with. And, if that weren’t enough, her “Before” weight was how much I weigh now. Yeah, that’s right I am officially a “Before” weight.
I kept staring at her tiny body trying to tell myself it was airbrushed. All day the fact that I am a “Before” weight started to weigh on my mind…so I went to the gym and I have decided to go on a break from bagels…for now. But then I realized that this “Before” weight is actually where I’m at. I have been falling off the wagon of diet and exercise and while I’m not back to where I started, I have a ways to go. I am going to break through this “Before” phase because now I’m determined to look better than that Zumba slut in the “After” photo. Damnit.
The other day I got a message from a friend of mine who is pregnant, again. Seriously, she collects babies like a boring person collects postage stamps or dust. “We should hang out I need to get out,” she whined. Little did I know that this would mean going to the maternity store to go swimsuit shopping. This is the same girl who told me over the phone the other day. “I went to the gym even though I didn’t want to.” This was the day I didn’t want to go to the gym, and didn’t.
The maternity store is a curious place for someone who has never been pregnant or able to shop in a clothing store with “regular” person-sized clothing. I looked around the store and found that while all of these clothes were for pregnant women they were for skinny pregnant women. “Don’t fat chicks get maternity clothes?” I asked my friend. “Yeah, they got a few things here but this stuff is mostly for smaller women.”
“A few things” meant shitty clothes on a sale rack…except for one 3X dress that I considered buying but didn’t for fear of someone asking me where I had purchased it and then asking, “Are you pregnant?” This has happened before…What I was really waiting for was the sales lady at the maternity store to ask me if I was expecting so I could drop the, “Not pregnant, just fat” line on her skinny ass. That bitch.
The real kick in the stomach (proverbial in my case, of course) was the fact that my pregnant friend tried on a bikini. Ugh. So, I told her it made her tits look like shit. When my preggo friend was first looking at the bikinis she had said, “Maybe I need a two-piece to let it all hang out and show it off a little.” Maybe fat women should be able to do that too. Maybe fat women shouldn’t be cordoned off in the swimsuit realm to car cover-sized apparel with ruffles and shorts. Maybe we should get a chance to let it all hang out and show it off a little too, dammit. After all we big ladies got a lot more to show off! Here’s to a fat chick bikini revolution.
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